


A Dish Best Served Cold

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Series: Prince of Omens [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), But Dagon's about to regret they ever laid a finger on Crowley, Don't copy to another site, Down, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanart, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Romance, brief mention of torture without any gory details, maybe Aziraphale has a hard time standing up to Gabriel, mention of Crowley's Fall, prince of omens, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630693
Comments: 35
Kudos: 217





	A Dish Best Served Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prince of Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21848095) by [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/pseuds/WhiteleyFoster). 



> All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by Whiteley Foster's 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the. I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. _Please_ wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were _Crowley’s_ decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. _They’re_ different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

 _No_ , Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He _hates_ the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. _This isn’t him_ , he reminds himself. _Not really._ It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a _demon_ … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

_Bingo._

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet _Aziraphale_ (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

 _“Come on. Let me preen these for you,”_ Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur _. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”_

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he _elaborated_.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an _angel_. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be _Hell_.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re _demons_! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you _wouldn’t!_ ”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …” 

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. _You_ wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for _no more_.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoast, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … _anything_ … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you _what_?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … _sir_.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s _vodka_!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”


End file.
